


the quiet

by dizkipling



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pynch Week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-12-10 16:32:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11695560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dizkipling/pseuds/dizkipling
Summary: sometimes a gesture can mean more than a spoken word. or, the one where adam and ronan fight and words are hard for both of them.





	the quiet

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Day 6 of Pynch Week.  
> Title taken from Troye Sivan's THE QUIET.  
> As someone who studies Greek (and Latin) in college, I'm sorry. This prompt excited me immensely.

Language can be a fickle thing – a jumble of words and phrases that might sound coherent in the crevices of the mind, but once they’ve been spoken aloud can be altered and twisted by the ears of the listener. Something about being lost in translation.

The Ancient Greeks, for one, developed a systematic way for words and lips and ears to merge. Though, to an unsuspecting ear, this merge might mean nothing. English lost this system, forgoing endless paradigms and forgoing clarity.  _ He slept in his bed _ . Who was he, and was he sleeping in his own bed, or in the bed of another? The Greeks knew. They also knew a soul was not just a soul, their word  _ ψυχή _ capturing more than just the  _ essence _ of humanity in only two syllables.

Ronan Lynch did not care for the Ancient Greeks. In fact, Ronan Lynch did not care for words at all. He didn’t dance with metaphors nor did he dabble in the texts of ancient philosophers. He said what he meant. He was blunt and he was honest, undeniably Ronan Lynch. If the mood called for a “ _ Fuck you _ ,” he was more than happy to offer one up.

If someone asked him how he was doing –  _ no, how are you really doing _ – he would bite the leather bands around his wrist and shrug. Words were hard. Even in Latin, the language of his dreams, he struggled. Pronunciation was impeccable, grammar and the ways in which he strung words together were not. 

He told himself it shouldn’t be this hard.

Adam Parrish liked the systematic way the Ancient Greeks spoke. Not that he knew any of the language, but he was promised it was similar in principle and practice to Latin. Latin made sense; Adam could do Latin. He liked the feeling of clarity, even if he didn’t believe in the added weight many of the words carried.

Words were sometimes all Adam Parrish had. Though, oftentimes those words betrayed him, laced with anger and ill-intent and surfaced by memories of his father. In his mind, father yelled at son. Then son conjured up animosities never to be said aloud. Father yelled some more. The memories stung. Adam tried not to say these words, tried not to fight. He didn’t want to fight.

He did his best.

(But the marvelous thing about language is that once a word has been said aloud, it cannot be taken back.)

Adam Parrish was alone in his St. Agnes apartment because of his words. He didn’t remember much of the fight, just that there had been one. Lots of swearing, a box being kicked in, the sound of a door slamming. Ronan leaving.

_ Fuck it, I’m out. _

_ Fine. _

The silence that followed was insufferable.  

Through his open window, Adam caught a glimpse of Ronan walking to his car. There was the sound of the car door opening and then promptly being slammed shut. He waited for Ronan to start the car, waited to see the headlights disappear down the old Henrietta road. Adam waited for the feeling of emptiness to resurface, the same as it had many times before over the course of his life. 

When the world remained quiet, Adam kept his place by the window. The engine never started, the headlights never flashed. He could just see Ronan’s outline, head pressed against the BMW’s steering wheel. When Ronan lifted his head, Adam backed away, retreated to his unmade bed. 

Fingers laced themselves with cheap sheets purchased at one of Henrietta’s multi-purpose stores. They were itchy and uncomfortable and felt on the outside the way Adam felt on the inside. Behind closed eyes, the fight replayed itself in Adam’s mind. His thoughts were alive with an electric buzz, anger burning white hot. He couldn’t remember what had started the fight, if it had been something he had done or something Ronan had said. 

He felt the sweat gathering at the base of his neck, wetting his already damp and stained t-shirt. The early traces of a headache pulsed along his temples. The world began to go a bit fuzzy. 

_ It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter.  _

Adam stood up, letting the sheets fall back into a heap on the mattress. The room spun for a moment before he was able to steady himself, tired eyes looking toward the window. Because of course it mattered. Because this was Ronan, and Ronan  _ mattered _ . And the fact that Ronan still sat in his car, head down and skin prickling with regret, also mattered.

The air, like everything else about the night, was chilled. A distant breeze tickled Adam’s bare arms as he crossed over to the curb where the BMW sat. He didn’t announce his presence, but rather, opened the passenger door, knowing it would be unlocked. 

The car was warm and stuffy, windows rolled up and engine not running. The keys, Adam noticed, rested on the dashboard alongside a tiny, framed portrait Opal had created for Ronan. Adam remembered the day Ronan had placed the picture there, insistent it remain despite the number of times it toppled over whenever he accelerated or decelerated.  

_ What is it? _ Adam had asked.

_ Fuck if I know.  _ Ronan had responded, looking at the masterpiece with a surge of pride. 

When Adam looked at it now, eyes straining in the hazy evening light, he thought he saw a family. Three bodies, a bird, and a forest full of trees. A beautifully crafted  _ mess  _ strung together with markers and crayons and a dash of glitter. 

Adam slid his hand overtop of Ronan’s. He didn’t need words, he had this. 

This wordless moment, the feeling of his fingers interlacing with Ronan’s. Adam had this. He had Ronan’s eyes meeting his, the sensation that stirred inside of him as Ronan’s face began to lose the hard edges that always coupled his ill-moods. Ronan’s forehead touching his. He had the feeling of being kissed, of being wanted, of being happy.

The Ancient Greeks, in their all-encompassing language, developed different words for love.  Ἔρως spoke of sexual love, of passion and intimacy, while φιλία was more gentle, evoking a sense of familial camaraderie. Adam’s feeling for Ronan teetered on both of these terms, though aligned themselves closer with ἀγάπη. His feelings for Ronan were unconditional. 

Despite the fights and the arguments and the late nights wondering if all of  _ this  _ was worth it, Adam knew he was where he needed to be. Sitting in the passenger seat of Ronan’s BMW, steady fingers placed to Ronan’s lips. He was alive, entranced by the very feeling of this  _ aliveness  _ electrifying his veins. 

“Ronan,” Adam began, but then stopped.

He didn’t need to say it; Ronan already knew.

 

Because language, ever fickle, doesn’t always have to be verbal. Sometimes a gesture - the slightest touch or a smile that lingers a second too long - can reveal more than any three words ever could.


End file.
